Romeo & Juliet
by Gray Doll
Summary: Patrick Jane, professional gambler and personal adviser to Tommy Volker, flees with Teresa Lisbon after an incident that forces them to reconsider their standing in the underworld of Volker's crime syndicate. [AU, JanexLisbon]
1. One

**Notes: **This is an AU story, set in a world where the underworld of Tommy Volker's crime syndicate is the reason Patrick Jane, professional gambler and personal adviser to Volker, and Teresa Lisbon, a girl practically offered to Volker because of her father's debts to him, meet. Patrick and Teresa flee together after an incident that forces them to reconsider their standing and reasons in Volker's underworld. I have altered everyone's ages here – they are all considerably younger, as this story wouldn't work very well if they were their canon ages. Teresa is a little less than twenty (keep that in mind if she doesn't seem as 'mature' as the Teresa we know at times), and for Patrick, well, I'll leave that up to you. But he's definitely older than her.

**Warnings: **Some dark situations, violence, sexual scenes, general angst (well, it's me) and mentions of abuse.

* * *

**Romeo & Juliet **

_The girl is one of those people who love with their whole soul, and by God, it's going to be the death of her._

_Patrick Jane, contrary to popular belief, is (_was_) capable of that beautiful poetry, mythic confession and instigator of wars. But if there's one thing that he has learned over a decade of lies and fear and blood, it's that unconditional love should only be reserved for oneself, that epic declarations of love and ardor are only for martyrs._

_Patrick Jane is not a martyr. He has no desire to die._

_He is a survivor, always has been. Or perhaps he's just a coward – but he does not let himself think like that._

_He holds his cards close to his chest, watching, measuring, acting only when he knows he will come out on top. But he doesn't hide in the shadows, because shadows are for ghosts._

_And Patrick Jane is not a ghost. He keeps telling himself that, until it no longer feels like a lie_.

The truth is, Patrick Jane was quite content in the Volker underworld.

Until Teresa Lisbon came along.

* * *

Tears are falling from her eyes, her whole body quaking with the effort to keep silent. She was a strong one when she first came in, but then, everyone is before they get dragged deeper in. She won't look at him, staring at her shaky hands instead because she's proud and she doesn't want him to see the shame in her eyes.

Instinct tells him to help her. Logic tells him to leave, go to the estate or back inside the casino and forget he ever saw this.

Her arms move around herself as if she still feels naked before him, her cheeks flushed with fury and embarrassment.

Suddenly, irrationally, he wants to tell her that she shouldn't be angry with herself – that there was truly nothing she could do by herself to stop what had happened. That she shouldn't feel weak because of it.

Then he remembers that, logically, she's nothing to him but another addition to Tommy's collection of trophies, a girl he was never meant to associate with in the first place.

There's a feeling in his stomach much like her own shame; guilt and self-loathing eat away at his guts because he had gotten an eyeful he couldn't say he hadn't wanted.

But not like that. _Not like that_. Not with tears streaming down her flushed face while Tommy's thugs made her obey his command to strip before them.

The words had left his mouth before he could stop them. "That's enough," he'd said, and everyone's eyes had snapped to him, surprised and questioning. Sensing he had probably gotten himself into a rather precarious situation, he'd rushed to make it look like his concern was entirely for his employer. "Tommy, my friend, something tells me you wouldn't want your prize to be soiled before you can enjoy it yourself."

Her eyes, wide and glistening with a flicker of hope for a moment, had turned ice-cold again, shooting daggers at him as much as at the rest of the men, the men leering and licking their lips, the men with hands twitching to to grab and grope.

But it had worked.

Tommy had ordered his men away and Patrick himself had given her his jacket, gathered her things and led her out, but not before the other man had pulled her in for a bruising kiss – to which she had responded with teeth and an attempt at a slap.

(_The new girl had been brave and fiery since day one – maybe foolishly so, but brave nonetheless_.)

He had waited outside the bathroom while she'd changed, listening to her muffled sobs and trying very hard to ignore them. Trying to tell himself that if he was to bother for something or someone, it shouldn't be one of Tommy's girls.

That, hell, he shouldn't bother for _anyone_. That he'd stopped doing that, ages ago.

So he had stared blankly ahead and waited, a part of him expecting the girl to break down behind the door separating them, and then he would have to get in there and help her up.

But she was made of stronger stuff than Tommy's men had initially given her credit for. She had been a small, slender thing, all pale skin and big green eyes, eyes that nobody had bothered to search – because if they had, they would have surely seen the flame of defiance in them.

She had looked so tiny and fragile while being dragged deeper into the Volker underworld of guns and drugs and sex and anything Tommy could slip his fingers into. She had looked weak, and everyone had been so very surprised when she'd first fought back.

He gives a small sigh, and shakes his head when she holds out the jacket he'd given her. "Keep it," he says, finding himself actually trying not to let his lips break into the charming grin that has become as easy as breathing to him.

"Thank you," she murmurs, her eyes still not meeting his. Despite her sometimes spitfire airs and strength bubbling beneath the skin, she's a polite thing, capable of being warm and gentle. But her captors are eagerly tearing all that away while he does nothing but sit back and watch.

There are days when he does try to warn her, though, but he gets the feeling she trusts him less than she does Tommy's thugs themselves – the dazzling smiles he cannot help and his whispered reputation certainly do not help him, and she tries to block him out more than she listens.

He knows, without a shadow of doubt, that if she stays, they'll kill her. This world was never meant for her, good-hearted and gallant little thing she is.

(_And he stands by and watches, doing nothing to save her. Doing _nothing_, even though he could, and on cold, lonely nights he lies wide awake on his back and thinks that history is repeating itself._)

They stay silent and tense while he drives her from the casino to the estate. She sits curled up in the passenger's seat, clutching his jacket around her thin frame as if it will cover up the memory of Tommy and his men (_and him_) staring at her nearly naked body.

As if the gesture will make it all go away, as if she will ever be able to walk down the halls again without feeling dirtied and bare.

His fingers ache around the steering wheel and his jaw is clenched, and for the first time in more than a decade he doesn't care that another person might see him like this, anything less than perfectly in control of himself. His eyes stare blankly ahead while he tries not to look at her sitting next to him, because he couldn't bear the sight of her now, battered and bruised and almost broken.

He couldn't bear the sight of her now, because she's still valiant and innocent no matter how hard they try to make her a woman used and scorned, a toy to throw away once it's broken. He couldn't bear the sight of her now, because there's already talk about another girl to replace her, and then all the hungry eyes that saw her tonight will become hungry hands on her skin, grabbing and scratching and tearing.

And then she'll become nothing more than another body dumped in the river – he should know, he's indirectly (_inadvertently_) added many bodies to that long list himself because of whispered words to Tommy's ear.

He parks the car in one of the few empty slots and waits in silence, his gaze flickering to where she's sitting next to him and he's mildly surprised that she's finally looking up at him.

"Thank you," she whispers, but he's not entirely sure she means it. She doesn't even like him – to her he's nothing more but another one of the men who have set out to destroy her for their own amusement.

But her eyes are bright and glistening in the dark, and she's clutching his jacket with trembling fingers, and she thanks him. "For speaking up for me."

He sits there, watching her intently, a hand still draped over the steering wheel.

Finally, he says, "Pack a small bag. Take only what you need."

She blinks, uncomprehending, and he's already regretted having spoken the words.

Or maybe he hasn't.

"Pack a small bag," he repeats, this time his voice a little firmer. He steps out of the car, walks around and opens her door as well. "We'll meet here in twenty minutes. Then we'll leave."

She nods, slowly, and he looks at her as if trying to pour the sincerity of his words to her through his eyes, willing her to trust him.

She does, and he can only stand there, still and dumbfounded, shocked that she _listened_, that she's willing to trust him, of all people, staring after her as she runs inside and disappears behind the great oak doors. Then he remembers he has to discard their cellphones and grab the briefcases he keeps hidden underneath the floorboards in his bedroom, and promptly follows her inside.

* * *

When she was a little girl, Teresa Lisbon wanted a life like something out of a movie. And she can't help but think there are very few things more theatrical than running for your life.


	2. Two

**II.**

Most of the time she looks at him like she doesn't know why on earth she decided to follow him.

He doesn't know the answer to that unspoken question either, so he keeps silent and lets her pretend to be relieved to be riding away with him.

Patrick gambles for a living and likes his drinks expensive – if there was ever a man of luxury, that was probably him. But in his line of work it's always wise to save for a 'rainy day', and he's set aside enough money in case the day came when he might need to disappear like the last time.

He just never thought he'd disappear with a pretty girl in tow.

They switch from his easily recognizable Citroën to a nondescript black SUV when he stops to get the cash he keeps hidden away in the house he cannot bring himself to call home any longer. While walking down the dark, empty corridors he stares blankly ahead and tries very hard not to turn left and let his feet take him to the door at the end of one of the halls.

He doesn't turn on the lights, doesn't look around, tries to pretend this is just another building with no more importance than all the others. When he climbs back down the flight of stairs, carrying two large briefcases, he sees a bloody face laughing down at him in every corner, every shadow – is he never going to be free, then?

Before getting back outside and into the car, he makes sure to make his face unreadable – pleasant, even. Years of practice have made this as easy as blinking.

She's sitting in the backseat, quiet and nervous, eyes flickering about and he can tell fear and doubt are creeping in, making her question her compliance with this plan that is not even a plan. She keeps asking herself why on earth she decided to trust him, he can tell. And, for the life of him, he doesn't know why either.

She looks out the window but her eyes dart to him occasionally, anxiety and something very close to regret reflected in that bright, honest emerald gaze. It dawns on her that she'll be alone with him wherever they go, a man who was no-one to her but her captor's adviser only half a day ago.

He tells himself it's absurd that he feels insulted she might think that this is probably worse that staying back as Tommy's plaything. He tells himself that it makes absolutely no sense he hates the idea she might believe he wants to treat her the same way – he is after all very, very far from the nicest man, even among Volker's goons.

But she does not voice her doubts, keeps her second-guessing to herself and stays curled into a ball in the back, with his jacket still wrapped around her small frame like a white knight's cloak. She looks so small and fragile, and now that her eyes are closed the sparks of her strength and defiance are gone, shielded.

His gaze flickers to the rearview mirror a little too much, he realizes, and decides that the sight of her looking so vulnerable and desperate will not help his driving at all. Forcing down the unbidden desire to say something, anything, to comfort her, he gets himself to keep his eyes only on the road.

He stays silent, because there really is nothing to say. Because despite himself he keeps thinking that he's making a huge, terrible mistake, that he's leaving behind a decade of a prestigious life in the night for a life on the lam, all because of a pretty girl who was tossed around like a doll by his 'friends', as if she was the first one. That there is no escaping Volker and his men, anyway.

He drives, and thinks that maybe the girl was only the cherry on top, that maybe he's doing what he's been wanting to do for years; to get away, try to start anew (again). He drives, and calculates how much time they have before their absence is discovered. Three to four hours, at most – Tommy almost never returns to the estate before dawn, and usually his goons that get there earlier don't bother to check on the girl, because there really is no way out of the estate without someone from the inside helping.

He sets his jaw and thinks he's an idiot, but he checks on the sleeping girl one more time anyway, and keeps on driving.

Perhaps she could cut and dye her hair, and he could buy her clothes Teresa Lisbon would not be caught dead in, even make her wear a hood wherever she goes. But he doubts they wouldn't recognize her if they saw her, and even more so if they saw him.

_This is madness_, he thinks, but he keeps on driving, stopping only once, when he has to; when the gas tank needs to be filled and Teresa starts murmuring about her bladder, when his legs need a stretch and they have to buy food to get by a few more hours before their next stop.

When they're back in the car Teresa seems less exhausted, less ashamed, maybe even less regretful (or perhaps that is his imagination, twisted to make it look like she doesn't want to run away from him as much as from Volker). Instead of curling into herself in the backseat she sits in the front, knees up to her chin and his jacket still hanging from her shoulders.

She holds out a bag of chips and offers him some, then shrugs a little and proceeds to eat them herself when he refuses with a shake of his head. A few minutes pass in tense silence before she speaks up and it's not a nearly incoherent murmur, for the first time since he told her to pack.

"Where are we going?"

He is mildly surprised that her voice is even and polite, like a little schoolgirl asking her teacher if she has to do homework for tomorrow.

"Where we won't be spotted," he says vaguely, and he can feel her eyes on him, bright green and questioning.

"And where is that?"

"I'm still working on it," he replies, and her face falls. Clearly she thought he had an intricate, foolproof plan, otherwise they wouldn't be doing this – and once again he inwardly cringes at how terribly wrong this is, because for the first time since he can remember himself he truly doesn't know what he's doing.

She stays quiet for a little while, and he can't decide if he's content with hearing only the sounds of the engine and the soft crunching of the chips as she eats, or if he wants her to keep talking.

"Was that your house?" she asks him suddenly, and she's finished her chips and is now opening an orange juice bottle. "That place we stopped by earlier, where you went to get your cash."

His fingers momentarily tighten around the steering wheel. "Yes."

She looks thoughtful. "It's a beautiful house. Why do you stay at the estate and not there? I mean, did. Why _did_ you stay at the estate-" she trails off, blushing a little – whether it's from embarrassment, he can't be one hundred percent sure.

"It's a long story," he says, without taking his eyes off the road.

"Do I want to hear it?"

She's a smart one, Teresa. Or perhaps she's just seen and heard too many things she shouldn't have in her short life. "No, I don't think you do."

She nods, but seems determined to keep up a conversation with him. He suspects she wants to determine if she can really trust him, or if she should leave him as well and run away by herself.

So he keeps on driving, and awaits the inevitable question.

"Why did you do it?" she asks him, voice once again hushed and timid. His gaze flickers to her and back to the road.

"You don't trust me," he says, stating the obvious, and she gives one of the very unladylike snorts she's more than capable of and had once received a slap by one of Volker's men for. He's surprised to find that he rather likes the sound – it's very _her_. In a way.

"You're one of them," she says, once again looking out the window, hugging her legs close to her chest. "Not just _one_ of them, you're that bastard's personal adviser. Why should I trust you?"

"Why did you come with me then, if you don't trust me?"

She turns her head to look at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and then forces a small smile. "Do you always answer a question with a question?"

Despite the slight quivering of her voice, despite the nervousness in her eyes, despite the exhaustion and desperation coming off of her in waves, he laughs, because that's one of the many little things she needs right now, maybe one of the many little things they both need.

He laughs, his grip on the steering wheel visibly relaxing, and she gives a small chuckle herself before going back to her serious demeanor.

"You didn't answer my question," she says, almost accusingly.

"You didn't answer my question either."

"I had no other choice," she snaps, but her face softens as soon as the words have left her mouth. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that, but-"

"Someone has taught you how to be a polite little thing, right?" He gives her a sideways glance. "Don't worry, you don't have to do that here. There's no one around to hurt you."

She huffs and rests her chin on her knees, staring ahead with blazing eyes. It doesn't take a genius to know she's thinking of the last time she lost her temper with Volker, and what had followed.

_I'm not like him_, he wants to tell her, but he keeps his mouth shut and waits for her to speak first.

In the end she whips her head around and glares at him, her hands clutching her legs so tightly against her body it looks like they might break. "What's the deal with you, then? I've heard about you, you're the gambler, the charmer, the _consigliere_. Volker's golden boy. Why would you ever want to help _me_? Why would you ever want out of your perfect luxurious life?"

He gives a small shrug. "I can take you back, if you're so worried I have obscure motives. I don't think they've discovered we're gone yet."

She throws her head against the high back of the seat and shuts her eyes, and he knows the conversation is over. He can see the way her shoulders shake under his jacket, though, but she's quiet, and that's all that matters.

Because he's tired of hearing her cry and he's tired of all her questions (it makes him feel useless and stupid and he doesn't have answers for her, not even for himself). Because he's just _tired_, of everything, and there are not enough miles between them and Volker, not yet (probably there will never be).

They don't speak another word to each other for another three hours – that's when they stop at a grungy motel next to a rundown gas station any sane driver would avoid, because at this point he just can't see straight and he knows driving any further will put them in as much danger as stopping for the night will.

Teresa scrunches up her nose a little, frowns and looks less than pleased about their accommodations, but doesn't speak a word as they step inside. The walls are covered with dark stained wood paneling, offset by linoleum flooring that's yellowed by time and peeling up at the corners. Across the room from the counter, a line of mismatched, plastic covered folding chairs are pushed up against the wall. With a cigarette between his lips, a young man, probably a couple of years older than Teresa, is fumbling with the antenna of a small TV behind the counter.

Patrick clears his throat to rouse the motel clerk's attention, the moment the man pounds against the TV and mumbles his frustration with a slew of curses.

Raising his eyebrows, the young man shifts his eyes back and forth between Patrick and Teresa, the implication written clearly across his face while his voice remains wholly dispassionate and monotone.

"Will you be wanting the hourly rate?"

Beside him, Teresa shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another, and he can see her face turning a deep shade of red.

He smiles at the man, who looks entirely unfazed. "No, we'll be needing a room for the night."

Shrugging his shoulders, the clerk snatches up a room key and tosses it across the counter before pulling another cigarette from the front pocket of his shirt and placing it behind his ear. "That'll be 36.25 dollars. Room eight, second door on the left, first floor."

He's grateful when they go in and see two beds; clearly she is too. She drops her small satchel on the mattress and takes off his jacket, but instead of giving it back to him she absentmindedly places it next to her own belongings. He finds that he doesn't mind – on the contrary, he almost genuinely smiles.

She takes off her shoes, ties her hair up in a messy bun, and that's when he realizes he's been standing there the whole time, staring at her, thinking about nothing and everything.

_What on earth am I doing_?

She meets his eyes while taking a pair of clean pants and a shirt from her bag. "I'm going to take a shower," she informs him, and he nods.

"Don't use up all the hot water."

He checks all the locks, rigs the window, puts all their bags in the narrow space between their beds, checks his cash, and checks it again. The shower's on, and for a fleeting moment, he thinks about what might be going through her head while she's under the hot water. Surely she's inspecting her ugly bruises, crying, and wondering what she's doing here. Wondering what she's done to deserve this life.

He suddenly feels like a wretch, slumping down on the creaking bed and staring at the wall, hearing the water running. His hand absentmindedly goes to his ring finger, but he finds nothing there (that's when he remembers he took it off, years ago).

Some things are easy to forget. Some things aren't.

He closes his eyes, and tells himself he's doing it for the girl – for Teresa. That this is about getting her away and keeping her safe, not about him running for himself again.

(_But why does he have to be on the list of monsters to protect her from?_)

The water finally turns off, and she emerges a few minutes later, her dark hair wet and her skin glowing. She's in a white t-shirt and loose pants, practical and unflattering, nothing like the skin-tight, revealing clothes Volker used to make her wear, and he can't help but think how much more beautiful she looks now.

"I didn't take too long, did I?" she asks him, her lips forming a small smile she's never given him (or anyone, for that matter) before.

"You didn't." He stands, and once again he finds himself struggling not to give her a large dazzling smile. Over the years he's come to do it almost unconsciously, and sometimes it's actually hard to remember that a full-blown, charming grin won't help her situation at all. "Don't turn on the TV, keep the lights turned off, and if you hear anything, don't hesitate to come into the bathroom and tell me."

She nods, softly sitting down on her bed, and frowns up at him. "Where's your gun?"

It takes him a few seconds to realize that, of course, she expects him to carry guns and knives around. _The gambler, the charmer, the consigliere –_ of course he's supposed to be armed and ready for combat.

"It's in one of the briefcases," he tells her simply, and he can see the disbelief in her eyes.

"Don't you have one on your person?"

"No, I don't. My weapon," he lifts a finger to his temple, "is up here."

"That won't save you if you find yourself in the middle of gunfire," she says pointedly, crossing her arms about her chest.

He shrugs. "It has, more than once."

She blinks, and then shakes her head. "Yeah, okay." With that she stands up, digs through their bags until she finds the single small revolver he owns, picks it up and hides it underneath her pillow. "What?" she asks, arching an eyebrow at his disbelieving look. "A girl has to protect herself."

He's caught between smiling and wanting to snatch the gun away from her. Who knew this pretty little thing would know her way around revolvers?

He simply shakes his head, and goes into the bathroom. When he comes back out, clean and smelling of heap motel soap, Teresa is lying on her side, facing his bed. He's changed back into the clothes he was wearing last night, but she doesn't comment on his lack of sleepwear or how uncomfortable sleeping in a three-piece suit must be.

When he lies down on his back and closes his eyes, he hears her shift slightly on her bed.

"Patrick?"

"Yes?"

A small pause. "Thank you."

When she starts to cry, about half an hour later, she's hushed and quiet, and he does not make a sound. Eventually she drifts off to a fitful sleep, and he stays awake all night, listening to her breathing and shifting around on the creaking bed.

* * *

When she was a little girl, Teresa Lisbon wanted a life like something out of a movie. All the best movies need a little pain, though, a little heartache, a little difficulty. Otherwise they would be boring.


	3. Three

**Notes: **Despite what things look like from Jane's POV in this chapter, there _will_ be JanexLisbon later on, but I do think it's still a bit too early for that. Keep in mind, that Jane, in this story as well, is a widower (his back-story and how he ended up as Volker's 'consigliere' will be revealed as the story progresses) and he doesn't want or need someone falling for him since he's not 'emotionally available' – or, at least, that's what he thinks, for now.

The drama, romance, action and angst are all to come very very soon. This could be a warning - or a promise *wink wink*

A big thank you to everyone who's favorited/reviewed/added this story to their alerts! It really means a lot to me!

* * *

**III.**

Despite her fierce airs but otherwise polite demeanor, the girl really can't hide things from him – or anyone, for that matter.

He can see the battles waging within her as clear as day; he never misses it when determination and perhaps frustration seizes her countenance whenever she tucks his own gun underneath her car seat, he never misses it when little doubts flutter in her head like the flapping of wings as she tries to convince herself that she's made the right choice, he never misses it when her cheeks color and her eyes flitter about if he gets too close, if he forgets himself and gives her the most charming of his smiles.

"I can lie," she says earnestly, when he tells her she's going to need several lying lessons if she really wants to make it out of this alive. "What do you think I've been doing all this time?"

"You've been _trying_ to lie," he says, giving her a sideways glance before turning his eyes back to the road ahead. "You have honest eyes. They give you away every time."

She huffs out but doesn't say another word as he pulls the car to an abrupt stop outside a beat up gas station, and he's surprised she doesn't comment on his driving. It's been five days since their first night on the run, and since day one she's made a point of constantly asking him to take the wheel herself – it's quite adorable, this fear she has of being driven around. Or at least it would be, if it didn't stem from where he supposes it does – Volker's goons throwing her in the backseats of SUVs and taking her wherever they wanted.

He turns off the headlights but can still see the disappointment in her eyes when he steps out of the car and tells her he's going to buy gas.

"Are we sleeping in here again?" she asks him, voice tired and almost desperate, but clearly she already knows the answer to her question.

They've spent the past five mornings driving in tense silence, switching out vehicles, and the past five nights sleeping in those vehicles because motels are too risky, at least while they're still in the States. That first night at the motel was an indulgence, a risk, and he knows they cannot repeat it, no matter how much they both need a good bath and a proper bed.

But she's looking up at him with such bright green eyes, pleading and desperate, that he feels his resolve wavering. She's quiet, but miserable with her dirty clothes and her greasy hair, obviously sore from the tight quarters they've been sleeping in, and the fitful naps in the car aren't taking the edge of her exhaustion.

He shakes his head in defeat, and her face lightens, even if only for a fleeting moment.

But it's still a huge risk.

There's a smile tugging at the corners of her lips when they step into the motel room, and the first thing she does is run for the bathroom while he gathers their things and places them next to the wardrobe but not inside, and hovers in the middle of the narrow space once he realizes that there aren't two single beds, but only a double one.

Neither of them had noticed that in their haste to get past the intrusive motel clerk, lock the doors and windows, and rid themselves of their overcoats. It's something simple, really, he tells himself. The bed, even though apparently creaky and hard, is large enough, and she's so exhausted she will drift off in a matter of seconds once her head hits the pillow.

But he's seen her averting her gaze from his whenever he grins, the color rushing to her cheeks, and the frustration in her eyes (whether she's angry at herself for letting her guard down, or at him, he doesn't really know).

And sometimes he thinks that she might end up looking at him like something he's not. He doesn't want her to give him reverent and grateful smiles – he's not a hero, and he's definitely not an angel, no matter how hard she probably tries to convince herself he is.

The girl is one of those people who love with their whole heart, and if there is the slightest chance she will regard him as something more than a means to get away from Volker, it'll be the death of her.

He can't have that. He _won't_ have that. He can't let her be ruined once he's decided to save her.

When she re-emerges she's wearing the same loose pants and t-shirt she had on their first night on the run, and her eyes widen at the sight of him sitting on the edge of the double bed. Her lips part slightly and she blushes, and he tries very hard not to think of how terribly pretty she looks.

"I asked for a room with two beds," he explains, making sure to sound just nonchalant enough. "But there weren't any. I will sleep on the floor, of course-"

"No." She looks surprised at the sound of her own voice, and her blush deepens, nervousness and frustration at her nervousness once again taking over. "I can't let you sleep on the floor. I mean, the bed is big enough for the two of us."

She isn't wrong, and his whole body aches from the nights spent curled up in the front seat – the idea of a bed is too tempting, but the way she tries to avoid his gaze when she nears the bed and sits down carefully on her side is enough to make him shake his head, and stand.

"I've slept on the floor before," he says lightly, no matter the untruth. "It's really not as bad as they make it look in movies."

She tries to hold his gaze and ignore his easy smile while pulling the covers up to her chest, but remains silent – both relief and disappointment flashing in her eyes, and he doesn't know whether he feels relieved or disenchanted himself.

Later that night, however, after he's taken a shower himself and has double-checked the locks and their belongings, he gives in and lies down on the bed next to her, but as far away from her supine form as possible without falling over the edge.

A few hours later, there's a soft hand on his shoulder and a hushed voice in his ear, dragging him from sleep, and he brings a hand to his face, letting out a small groan. He doesn't remember drifting off.

"Patrick," she says, her voice small and meek and nothing like the proud tones she used while still in Volker's clutches. Her green eyes are wide and round and glistening, and he wonders how long she's been crying (and why he didn't hear her).

"What?" he chokes out, a little groggier than he would have thought acceptable, but she doesn't flinch away or comment on the look on his face – he imagines it must be a compound of confusion, irritation and nothing like the confident, charming facade she (like everyone) has associated him with.

Dreams are fading fast from his memory, but he recalls wide red smiles taunting him, and rubies turning to emeralds and then to absolute nothingness.

"I can't sleep," she whispers, and averts her eyes. "I got up and checked and there's nothing but I just keep hearing things."

He sits up and pulls away a little, so that there is more space between them.

"I know it's stupid," she continues in hushed whispers, "but I don't know why, I keep thinking that any next moment could be the one someone bursts in and kills us."

He gently pushes her aside and gets off the bed, doing his best to give her a reassuring smile. "That's a good thing," he says, and perhaps he means it. "It's better to be alert than unprepared, that's for sure."

He walks over to the window, pulls the flimsy curtain aside, checks out cautiously through the edges. There are no other cars in the parking lot except theirs and the motel clerk's, who's shouting on his phone to his wife or girlfriend – he can't tell. He tenses when he sees headlights from a distance, but the car passes by without slowing.

"There's nothing," he says, going back to the bed. "We must get some rest though, we have a long way ahead of us tomorrow."

He lies on his side and closes his eyes, and behind him the bed shifts slightly as she tries to make herself comfortable as well. He knows there's no chance he'll be able to sleep again tonight, but maybe it's better this way.

Several long minutes pass in silence, and she just can't stay still. She tosses and turns, and in the end she mumbles an apology about making so much noise, to which he replies with a small shrug of his shoulder.

When he feels her hand on his shoulder again, and her hair tickling his arm, he opens his eyes, fixes them on the wall straight ahead. "Patrick?"

"Yes?"

She smells of the motel's cheap soap-and-shampoo combo and something else, a smell that's entirely her, reminding him faintly of coffee and cinnamon.

"I don't think I'll be able to sleep any more tonight."

He sighs, and rolls over on his back, tilts his head to the side to look at her. She's kneeling on the mattress, looking down at him through her lashes, her hair falling around her face in dark tendrils. She's pushed the covers aside, and he grabs a fistful of the sheets and pulls it over her lap.

"Lie back down," he says softly. "Close your eyes, and sleep will come."

She rolls her eyes but does as she's told, until their faces are level. "So are you going to hypnotize me or use one of your mental tricks to help me sleep?"

He frowns a little. "Now where did that come from?"

"All the men and women back in Volker's place talked about every time you left the room was your mentalist skills," she says, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "That, and how annoying you are."

His frown deepens in mock-hurt. "Do you think I'm annoying?"

"_Were_ annoying. Just a little."

He chuckles, low and soft, before turning his gaze to the ceiling. "It's three in the morning. You really should sleep, we'll be up at seven and probably won't see a real bed for another three or four days."

She sighs, and she shifts again, mimicking his posture. Eventually, she asks, "do you even know where we're going?"

"Why, are you not enjoying the road trip?" he asks, and regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth – mainly because of her response;

"I didn't say that."

He blinks, and desperately tries to convince himself that he can't make sense of that, but fails. This is about getting her away, getting her someplace safe and pretty where she can start over, away from Volker and his hellhole. This is about helping her begin anew, and then getting away himself.

This was never about the two of them, and the realization that she's clearly forgotten that simple fact is unnerving.

He decides not to comment on what she's said. "We're going to see an old friend of mine, who owes me. He'll help you."

She nods, looking deep in thought. "And he won't sell us out?"

"No, he won't. Like I said, he owes me."

She does not press the subject, but he knows her doubts are still firmly planted in her head. "Patrick?" she says again, after a while, her voice this time the tiniest bit louder. "Were you having a nightmare, before I woke you?"

His jaw clenches, before he forces his facade of pleasantness back on. "To tell you the truth, I don't remember. Why are you asking this?"

She struggles with words for a few moments, a frown creasing her forehead. "You seemed... upset. That's all."

Teresa, despite everything she's gone through in Volker's clutches, despite her fierceness and determination, is still a good-hearted, innocent little thing. But she's not stupid. Not in the slightest, and he knows it's only a matter of time before she starts making up stories about him, connecting the dots in whatever way she thinks correct.

He can either let her create a tragic backstory for him with no relation to reality whatsoever, or he can tell her the truth – and then he'd have to endure her sympathetic smiles, the sorrow in her eyes and her attempts to comfort him.

She's hurting enough already for herself, she doesn't need his own demons to haunt her as well.

He gives another shrug. "Who knows? Perhaps I was dreaming I lost at poker."

Despite herself, she chuckles. It's a rather beautiful sound, so much better than her muffled sobs. "Are you really _that_ good, then?"

"Teresa, I'm a professional," he says with a slight smile, allowing the tiniest bit of arrogance to creep into his voice for effect.

"Everyone loses every now and then, even the best ones."

"Not me," he says, and she rolls her eyes. "I _am_ the best one."

"You're so very modest, Patrick Jane," she says with a dramatic sigh. "It's a wonder you haven't gotten yourself killed with that big mouth of yours in that hell of a crime world."

Her words hit closer to home than she ever would have thought possible, but he doesn't say a word, fighting down a sudden lump in his throat.

He turns his head to the side and sees that she's closed her eyes, a hand folded over another on her stomach, her dark hair framing her face like a halo. The question is lingering in the air, hanging from her lips, he can almost hear it – '_Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?_'

He's glad she doesn't ask aloud, though, because he still doesn't have an answer.

When she shifts closer to him, ever so slightly, he tenses, and tries very hard not to show it. She's starting to trust him; she's starting to believe he's better than them.

_It won't be long before she starts looking at you like some hero from a movie_.

He knows he's not a hero. There's blood on his hands – not innocent blood, not by a long shot, but it's blood, never to go away. Covers and lies, this has been his life since he can remember himself, and he knows it isn't going to change any time soon.

And he doesn't want her to have delusions of a savior, of a kind and brave knight carrying her away in the sunset.

But when morning comes and she waits for him outside while he pays for their room, she has his jacket wrapped around her shoulders still, the tips of her fingers poking out from the long sleeves; she looks tinier than ever, but there's that look on her face – she feels safe. She feels protected.

And he can't miss it. After all, she can't hide things from him.

* * *

The leading man always hides things from the female protagonist at first, in all the best movies. He always tries to distance himself for her – because it makes the final realization, the final acceptance, so much better to watch. And Teresa Lisbon never liked movies that gave you everything from the start, anyway.


	4. Four

**Notes:** The next chapter will have some Q/A time between our two protagonists and some necessary exposition, as well as some new characters joining Jane and Lisbon. As always, thank you for reading!

* * *

**IV.**

If there is one thing Teresa can say for certain about Patrick Jane, it is that the man just never loses his cool. She doesn't know if it's all just pretense or if he really is that confident in his own ability to weasel his way out of everything, but it's a fact that Patrick Jane is the epitome of self-assurance.

But now, Teresa watches as his eyes focus on the rearview mirror, catching sight of something that seems to distract him, at least momentarily.

Something about it unsettles her – his reaction, for the first time since she met him, seems purely instinctive, fear seeming to rise within him.

"Damn," he mutters out on an exhaled breath as his eyes turn once more to the reflection of the road behind them.

Furrowing her brow, she turns to look at him, gauging his reaction and not quite understanding how to place it. His hands grip the steering wheel as he lets his eyes dodge between the rearview and side mirrors, his focus intent on a blue car that she only now notices is gaining on them.

With his foot pressed hard to the gas, she watches as their speed steadily increases, and yet the blue car keeps with them, getting even closer despite their now frantic rate of speed.

It all happens too fast, yet somehow seems to play out in slow motion, a strange dichotomy of time. As the blue car begins to pull up next to them, matching their speed, Patrick abruptly pulls Teresa's head down on his lap, cradling her in one arm as the other fights to maintain control of the car.

With the center console digging painfully into her side, it seems like an eternity before she hears the gunshots. The car seems to quake, its force slamming her against the steering wheel despite Patrick clinging onto her and fighting against the momentum propelling them forward.

The loud screeching of tires is muffled by the sound of the blue car colliding into them with a thunderous crash.

A sharp pull to the right, and it feels like they're floating; the pressure of the steering wheel seems to ease up before Patrick's arm loosens around her, and Teresa is jerked back towards the passenger side door, the one which she had not so long ago leaned against, gazing indolently outside the window.

The deafening sound of breaking glass, crunching fiberglass, and her own pained scream is the last thing Teresa hears before the world turns black.

* * *

The blue car trailing behind them could have been innocuous, just a fellow traveler down the highway which spanned the lonely expanse between Carson City and Vegas. Patrick had been watching it for quite some time, and at some point he'd recognized that particular make and model from last day's travel.

He had first spotted the dark blue Sedan outside of Redding, although it had kept a comfortable distance then. The car had only reemerged in his rear view mirror as they passed through Carson City, hiding inconspicuously amongst the clusters of traffic. Patrick had dismissed his suspicions as paranoia when the car had continued past the exit they had taken to last night's motel.

With Teresa making light and somewhat awkward conversation about the weather between munches on a sandwich, he spots the blue car once more and immediately understands that _this_ is hardly a coincidence.

With the expertise of a hired hit, the passenger-side window of the blue car rolls down, and bullets are fired with precision at the tires of his SUV, sending the car skidding across the side of the road.

He struggles to maintain control of the vehicle and probably would have been successful if it weren't for the blue sedan slamming into the side of his car, which goes careening off the road and down a drop-off.

He sees it all unfolding in slow motion and knows that, despite letting off the acceleration, the car's previous speed had been too high to assuage or prevent the eventual impact at the bottom of the steep hill.

In the end, it is scarcely a twelve food drop of sloping terrain, yet it might as well have been twice as high. The car has flipped and landed bottom-up on the unrelenting ground below. Dazed, too shocked for the moment to try and move, Patrick hangs upside down from his seat, blood rushing to his head and eliciting a steady throbbing through his temples.

As his senses slowly return to him, he whips his head around to the passenger seat, to find Teresa in the same position as him, except her side of the car seems to have taken the burn of the final impact. Whereas he dangles from his seat, Teresa's body looks folded nearly in half, her head turned away from him, but by the way she doesn't move or make any sort of sound, he suddenly fears for the worst.

In a panic, he fumbles with the button of his seat belt, his body moving much slower than he wants it to and his fingers uncoordinated as he struggles to release himself. With one arm pressed against the top of the car, he unburdens himself of his seatbelt and groans as his body falls into the small amount of space.

His window has been busted open, yet the edges are lined with jagged remains of glass. Turning his body the best he can, he kicks out the glass and carefully crawls out of the wreckage.

His legs feel numb as he uses his arms to pull himself around the side of the car. A sudden fear strikes him that he has somehow lost use of his lower limbs, that if he needs to get up and run (and he knows with a certainty that he will), he won't be able to do it. But eventually the numbness retreats, and he pushes himself to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath as a jolt of pain shoots up his left arm.

In stumbling steps, he circles around to Teresa's side of the car. Her window is also broken, glass strewn about like bloodied pebbles. She's bleeding from the hairline on her forehead, and by the way her body is crumpled in her seat, he can't tell if she's breathing.

"Teresa," he shouts as his arm works across her lap to the button of her seatbelt. "Talk to me. _Teresa_."

Her eyes remain closed and her breaths, if existing at all, come terribly shallow. Patrick feels a horrifying shock of dread grip him, his own breaths coming ragged as he struggles to get her out of the car with shaking hands.

For a fraction of a second, the image gone as abruptly as it flashes in his mind, he's standing in a dimly lit bedroom, blood drying on the white wall, his hands clutching a body close, shaking and covered with crimson. He has to shake his head to focus his mind back on his task – he hooks his arms under Teresa's, tries to pull her out.

"Leave her," a man's voice demands somewhere behind him, and he feels something hard being pressed to the back of his head. In his lifetime, Patrick has had a gun put to his head on more than one occasions, and as if moving of its own accord, his body goes through the motions.

He goes still, all except his arms, which he slowly raises in the air as he eases back on his knees, trying to remain as calm as possible.

"Easy there. Just tell me what you want," he says, voice low and bland, struggling to disguise the panic now coursing through him. He fights the urge to turn around, to meet the eyes of the man threatening him.

"Get up! Slowly. Keep walking until I tell you to stop. Don't you dare try anything!"

Filing through the memories of all the men he has met over the years, Patrick can not place this one's voice. Unable to do anything but comply, he slowly rises to his feet, his eyes on Teresa as he waits for any sign of life to stir in her unconscious form.

When the man shoves his gun between his shoulder blades with unnecessary force, he unwillingly tears his gaze away from her and begins to collect what information he can about the currently faceless man behind him.

The man is shorter than him; he can tell by the way the gun is no longer pressed against his head. If the man is shorter, he is undoubtedly smaller too, and if he is smaller, Patrick has a small chance to overpower him if he relies on the element of surprise; that is, assuming the man won't be expecting him to try and attack, that he won't be up to the task when it comes to physical altercation, and that he is alone.

He decides not to try anything.

After about thirty paces, the man shoves his gun even harder into Patrick's back, and barks out more commands. "Stop here! Get on your knees and keep your hands up!"

He complies, but even in his kneeling position Patrick feels a small rush of relief ripple through him. The man is shouting. _Weak men shout because they want to be heard – a man who is truly in power doesn't need to shout, he knows he's in control_.

There is nothing to do now but listen and wait. He hears the sound of the man's feet softly crunching against the dried desert ground, and he realizes his attacker is shifting his weight from one foot to another, impatience (and maybe nervousness) growing.

Another pair of footsteps shuffle somewhere behind him, a second man meandering about.

Going as still as possible, Patrick tries to focus, tries to piece the picture unfolding behind his back together in his mind.

"Just hurry the fuck up!" the man behind him snaps, growing increasingly irritated, his gun pressing hard against the back of Patrick's head. If this one's nervousness, and his partner's huffing and puffing from somewhere behind them, sounding as if he's struggling with something, are anything to go by, these man are inexperienced in what they are doing.

That could work in his favor, but it does make them even more dangerous. Men like these, he knows, are prone to mistakes; they are irrational, sloppy, and in frustration, anger, or fear, they often kill their targets needlessly if it becomes obvious the hit is botched, regardless of whether the targets are meant to be kept alive.

As the sound of the second man's footsteps begins to draw near, the one behind him eases up a little with his gun.

Patrick takes a mental note for each of the men's movements; nothing is insignificant. The man who had ordered him on his knees is obviously easily distracted, now forgetting himself as he lets his gun hover somewhere behind Patrick's head.

"Is the bitch dead?" the man behind him cries out, and Patrick feels something clenching in his stomach.

"How the fuck am I supposed to know?" the other man shouts back with agitation flaring in his voice. "I ain't no fucking doctor!"

With that, the other man drops Teresa's unconscious body on the ground next to Patrick, laying on her stomach and with her head facing him. The blood is beginning to dry on her forehead and cheek, and with a frantic and cursory glance over her, he finds no other apparent injuries, although that hardly calms the sudden panic once again rising through him.

_She can't be dead_, he hears a voice in his head say, low and desperate. _Not now, after everything. Not _her_. It was never supposed to happen this way. I was supposed to get her away, safe and sound and-_

A hard kick cracks against his ribs, sending him face down on the ground with a breathless groan.

The man holding the gun settles himself between him and Teresa, the end of the weapon now resting against his forehead.

"Behave, or you'll watch her die," the man says coldly. As Patrick had suspected, the man is small, unfamiliar, scowling at him with a gaunt face and yellowed teeth. Quickly, with the help of the second man, both Patrick and Teresa are bound with their hands behind their backs.

"You want to kill me for betraying your boss?" Patrick says, struggling to sound calm, to keep the pain shooting up his abdomen and arm and his panic at bay. "Good, then, but she has nothing to do with it. _I_ took her away, forced her to come with me. If there's one person you should be tying up, that's me, not her."

The man holds his stare, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners as his lips twist into an ugly smile. "Oh, no, no, Mr Jane. You see, it's you and her both. All or nothing. A great poker player like you should be familiar with this little saying, right?"

Still on his stomach, Patrick focuses his gaze on Teresa, only now discerning the subtle rise and fall of her back. Awash with relief, he now realizes that a small part of him wanted her to remain unconscious. If this is truly their end, he would rather it happen without her unaware of everything unfolding around her.

But his wish goes unanswered when he hears a soft whimper escaping her lips, her brow furrowing with a pained expression. Her eyes flutter, blinking away the fog in her vision, slowly registering her surroundings.

Her gaze eventually lands on him, and a ragged breath escapes her lips, rustling the strands of dark hair that rest against her cheek and mouth.

"Patrick," she breathes, her eyes growing wide with fear, her voice a raspy moan.

A chuckle. "Sleeping Beauty wakes," the other man says mockingly, crouching down on Teresa's other side, turning her to her back and caressing her bloodied cheek with the back of his hand. Patrick tries to work his way closer to her, earning himself a swift kick in the ribs that leaves him doubled over in pain, coughing.

The man stroking Teresa's face chuckles again, shaking his head. "Wow, Jane. You're a fucking ass, but you sure do know how to pick 'em." Horrified, Patrick watches as the man runs the palm of his hand down Teresa's neck and to the swell of her breasts. Teresa's eyes widen and her lips tremble as she tries to kick him, but he easily holds her down, eliciting another pained moan from her.

Despite the man pressing a gun to his head, Patrick tries to crawl closer to her. With a little smirk directed at him, the man slips his hand under Teresa's shirt, before a call comes from somewhere on the road above.

Lifting his eyes, Patrick sees a man running down the hill with sideways steps, arms out to balance himself as he half-rolls down the hill. The man crouching next to Teresa starts, springing abruptly to his feet and gripping his gun tighter.

"What the _fuck_ is going on?" he rages, waving his arms in frustration. Patrick shifts his gaze to the man above him, watches as he too gets inevitably distracted.

As the third man approaches, breathless and panting, he points madly to the road above.

"They're coming! That – other car that was trailing us," he almost doubles over, breathing shallow and ragged, "the Mustang, the one with – Volker's ex underboss, that Asian guy – and that ginger bitch, but without the tall one. They – they shot our man. They fucking shot him – right between the eyes!"

Running his hands through his tousled hair as he screams out expletives, the man who fancies himself in charge of this whole deal turns toward the man still hovering, uncertain, over Patrick.

"Go up there with him and take care of it! It wasn't supposed to be _this_ fucking hard!"

In an instant, the two men are running up the steep hill, but not before Patrick can see the sudden fear flashing in their eyes.

Working his way close to Teresa, he pushes himself to his knees, keeps his voice low as he murmurs whatever reassurances come to mind. "Teresa, look at me. Teresa – open your eyes. It's all fine. I'm here – we're both going to be fine, alright?"

Her eyes open, wide and wet.

"That's it. Just keep your eyes open, keep looking at me. I promise, this is all going to get better. You'll be fine. I promise."

A tear trickles down her cheek, but her jaw is set, her teeth clenched hard together. With him as powerless as she is, it is clear to him that his promises mean nothing to her – that she doesn't even want them, that she likely wants him to leave her to suffer this alone.

But he won't do that. He can't do that.

Even if it is reckless, even if it will probably get him killed, he needs to at least get Teresa out of this. He owes her that. The man still down here with them is fast unraveling, clearly ill-prepared for what he has been hired to do. Patrick sees the opportunity – it is risky, but if it works, it will save her life, and maybe even his own.

With a steady rumble of laughter, he rolls to his side, smiling wickedly up at the man. Confused and distracted, the man turns to look down at Patrick, pointing his gun shakily at him.

"What the fuck is so funny?" he barks, eyes wild and darting up to the road, fearful.

"Just tell me who hired you. Who put out the contract," Patrick says, laughter still lacing his words. "Was it Bertram?"

The man seems to bristle at that, his body giving away all the dirty secrets he has been clinging to. Stepping forward, he steadies his gun toward Patrick's face, but the latter buries his uncertainty and fear behind another mocking smile.

"So it was him. Can't say I'm surprised, though I am a bit offended. I would have thought he would have spared a lot more cash for a half-decent hit. Instead, he hired this mummer's show."

He keeps his eyes on the man, who is now chewing on his bottom lip – it's working, he can tell. He's getting under the man's skin, the man who had been expecting fear and is met with mockery. A better man would have remained resilient, and Bertram, or whoever it had been who chose these guys, had not been thinking straight when he made this decision. They are clearly up-jumped mafia men, probably contacts from a lesser family, hardly even made men by the looks of it.

"You don't know _shit_ about me and my crew," the man spits, clearly more than offended by Patrick's assumptions that he is some wannabe gangster guy. This means his words must have rung true, for the man is now pressing the end of his gun hard against Patrick's forehead.

Gunshots echo somewhere up above, eliciting a slew of curses from the man. Both he and Patrick tense in unison, neither of them having any way of knowing the outcome of those shots, which men will be coming down that hill to their aid in a few seconds.

The man is fully distracted now, his gun dangling from his fingers as he looks up at the road, eyes wide like saucers and mouth open – and Patrick immediately knows he has made it, Teresa has made it, they're safe, they won't die.

Rushing to his side, a red-haired woman holding out a gun calls out to the man to drop his own weapon; he does, and the woman snatches it, securing it in her belt and pointing her own at him. It's him on his knees now, hands held up in the air and fear flashing in his wide eyes.

"We've been following them for two days now," an Asian man says, his breathing even, even though he's just come running down the steep hill, calmly helping a flushed and bewildered Teresa in a sitting position and cutting the binds from her wrists. "We've been on the lookout for you ever since word spread that you ran away from Volker. When we found out about these guys we knew they were coming after you."

"Looks like we're just in time," the young woman says, gun still trained to the trembling man before her.

Patrick can't help but chuckle a little, wincing slightly as he straightens himself. "A few minutes earlier would have been just as fine, Grace. How's Wayne, by the way?"

Grace rolls her eyes, and her partner merely shakes his head as he proceeds to cut Patrick's bindings as well. "Trying to figure out why on earth you decided to do something so stupid, that's how he is. Cho and I were on our way the moment-"

"What about him?" Cho interrupts as he snatches up the kneeling man by the collar of his shirt and brings him to his feet.

Grace lowers her gun, furrowing her brow. "I say we take him back for questioning. A guy like this always has something useful to offer."

Cho nods, and within seconds he's shoving the man up the hill, undoubtedly leading him to his and Grace's car.

Brushing an auburn strand of hair from her face, blown by the wind, Grace walks carefully over to Teresa, who hasn't moved from her sitting position. Staring at the ground in front of her, she seems to be shocked into a withdrawn silence, unresponsive as the other woman crouches down in front of her, gently taking her hands in hers and lifts her to her feet.

"You're Teresa Lisbon, I presume," Grace says softly, a small smile on her lips. "We've heard so much about you. Don't worry, you're alright – it's just a few scratches, that's all. They'll be gone in a few days."

Before he knows what he's doing, Patrick walks over to the two women, wraps his arms around Teresa and pulls her close, leaving a slightly stunned Grace staring at them.

"I told you you'd be fine," he murmurs. "And I'm sorry – _this_, this will never happen again."

With her arms firmly tucked against her sides, she doesn't return his embrace. When he pulls back, her eyes are wide, wild, as though she's accusing him for this, for everything – and he can't find the strength to feel offended, not when he knows she's right. This wouldn't have happened if he hadn't acted on an idiotic whim, if he hadn't been out of his mind, if he hadn't offered to take her away when he himself didn't even know where they were going or why on earth he was doing this.

"I'm _fine_," she says sharply, and beside them Grace draws a long breath. Teresa casts her a suspicious glance, green eyes narrowed. His stomach lurches. It's almost painful to watch this, watch her trying to subdue everything, trying to suppress her pain, the tears welling in her eyes, trying to appear undaunted.

_She's just a girl_, he thinks, _a girl who has been through too much_.

"Teresa," Grace starts, "you should get in the car. We must clean your wounds a little, and you need to rest."

"They're my friends," Patrick cuts in. "They'll help us. Just do as she says, Teresa, and you'll be just fine."

It feels like hours have passed when she finally nods, but when she doesn't walk directly back up towards the road but works her way to the wreckage, Grace's eyes widen and she calls out.

"Hey, where are you going?"

Teresa doesn't respond; when she reaches the car, she ducks underneath the smashed window of the driver's seat and snatches something that looks like a ragged piece of tablecloth, gray and covered with glass splinters and dirt, before turning around and starting for the small hill leading to the road.

* * *

When she leans her forehead against the cool glass window, the too-large for her gray jacket on her lap, listening to the bound man's muffled moans coming from the trunk, Teresa reminds herself that every movie needs a little suspense, a little pain, a little heartache. She tries to muffle her sobs, and keeps telling herself that.


End file.
